Title: The Sydney Bristowisms
Author: Lisek16
Spoilers/Timeline: S02E01 "The enemy walks in"
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst
Summary: Will POV; reflections of things past and future qualms. CM CHALLENGE (January)
_____
It's as if she speaks her own language that so few can decipher.
She's gone more and more and her eyes reflect it.
She no longer tries to lie about where she was, or how long she was gone. She just finds the closest piece of furniture and crashes until her pager beeps or a misdirected call is received.
She has shared part of her life with me. I now know the truth, but this is the type of truth that is better off a white lie.
I preferred the Sydney Bristowisms; the phrases I was used to hearing, the excuses she was prone to spewing.
"I'm going for a jog", or "I'll be right back." They used to insinuate that she'd be back, that she'd return. Now they are empty. Meaningless and empty. The truth is, one day, she won't be coming back.
I know it. She knows it. We just scoot around it, we ignore the inevitable. I wish her luck, she hugs me in return. She puts up a brave front, but I can tell she's terrified. Terrified that she isn't coming back.
When we used to ask her where she was jetting off to, she'd tell us it was a boring client or a stuffy seminar; a meeting with the higher ups, a power lunch with a business partner. Those too were Sydney Bristowisms.
They were the lies, the phrases, and the words that snuffed out the truth. She has so many excuses and she's so used to the lies, that I find myself hanging onto the scraps of honesty she can divulge.
I know one day it will be different. Different because she'll go off on a business trip, a jog, a power lunch, a meeting or a seminar and will just vanish. She'll be just another name on a D.O.A list, or another body that can't be identified.
Her name might be on a passenger manifest from a crashed plane, while she, in reality will be tortured until she welcomes death. There is no first class seat for torture.
I refuse to confide in her, that I wish I didn't know. I refuse the urge to tell her how much it hurt to learn that everything I swore was true was all a Sydney Bristowism.
I hide my hurt by being there for her. Listening to her tears, consoling her fears. I try to understand, I try to help her through, but what can I say to the girl who has seen it all.
She has seen murder, betrayal, suffering and pain. She has experienced heartache and heartbreak. She is the strongest person I have ever known.
I asked her once, how does she do it? How can she wake up each morning and look at herself in the mirror? She weakly smiled, and gave me advice, "The trick is to keep breathing. The trick is to go on. You can never let them win. No matter what you must be strong..."
So I tried to go on, knowing the truth. I tried to go on suppressing the truth. I tried to be strong, but it wasn't helping me cope. It wasn't helping me help her. It wasn't helping at all. So I gathered up all my Sydney Bristowisms and pieced them all together. I found my rightful place among the lies and deceit.
I found that I was addicted to knowing everything. I needed the gory details in order to believe. That's what made a reporter out of me. The ability to question is surpassed by only thing; the ability to withhold the answers to those questions.
So I lie like her.
I use her excuses.
I conform her Sydney Bristowisms at whim.
I have my secrets… I have my lies and I too have my own 'Sydney Bristowisms'…
* The End *
Author: Lisek16
Spoilers/Timeline: S02E01 "The enemy walks in"
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst
Summary: Will POV; reflections of things past and future qualms. CM CHALLENGE (January)
_____
It's as if she speaks her own language that so few can decipher.
She's gone more and more and her eyes reflect it.
She no longer tries to lie about where she was, or how long she was gone. She just finds the closest piece of furniture and crashes until her pager beeps or a misdirected call is received.
She has shared part of her life with me. I now know the truth, but this is the type of truth that is better off a white lie.
I preferred the Sydney Bristowisms; the phrases I was used to hearing, the excuses she was prone to spewing.
"I'm going for a jog", or "I'll be right back." They used to insinuate that she'd be back, that she'd return. Now they are empty. Meaningless and empty. The truth is, one day, she won't be coming back.
I know it. She knows it. We just scoot around it, we ignore the inevitable. I wish her luck, she hugs me in return. She puts up a brave front, but I can tell she's terrified. Terrified that she isn't coming back.
When we used to ask her where she was jetting off to, she'd tell us it was a boring client or a stuffy seminar; a meeting with the higher ups, a power lunch with a business partner. Those too were Sydney Bristowisms.
They were the lies, the phrases, and the words that snuffed out the truth. She has so many excuses and she's so used to the lies, that I find myself hanging onto the scraps of honesty she can divulge.
I know one day it will be different. Different because she'll go off on a business trip, a jog, a power lunch, a meeting or a seminar and will just vanish. She'll be just another name on a D.O.A list, or another body that can't be identified.
Her name might be on a passenger manifest from a crashed plane, while she, in reality will be tortured until she welcomes death. There is no first class seat for torture.
I refuse to confide in her, that I wish I didn't know. I refuse the urge to tell her how much it hurt to learn that everything I swore was true was all a Sydney Bristowism.
I hide my hurt by being there for her. Listening to her tears, consoling her fears. I try to understand, I try to help her through, but what can I say to the girl who has seen it all.
She has seen murder, betrayal, suffering and pain. She has experienced heartache and heartbreak. She is the strongest person I have ever known.
I asked her once, how does she do it? How can she wake up each morning and look at herself in the mirror? She weakly smiled, and gave me advice, "The trick is to keep breathing. The trick is to go on. You can never let them win. No matter what you must be strong..."
So I tried to go on, knowing the truth. I tried to go on suppressing the truth. I tried to be strong, but it wasn't helping me cope. It wasn't helping me help her. It wasn't helping at all. So I gathered up all my Sydney Bristowisms and pieced them all together. I found my rightful place among the lies and deceit.
I found that I was addicted to knowing everything. I needed the gory details in order to believe. That's what made a reporter out of me. The ability to question is surpassed by only thing; the ability to withhold the answers to those questions.
So I lie like her.
I use her excuses.
I conform her Sydney Bristowisms at whim.
I have my secrets… I have my lies and I too have my own 'Sydney Bristowisms'…
* The End *